HURTS
by AvariceRose
Summary: "The secret recipe to happiness is hurt" - Adam Anderson During the bloody Civil war, two sides clash, nearly killing Alfred F. Jones. Nearly killing Amelia Felicity Jones. And leaving Alaric Fynn Jones with the blood on his hands as well as the victory. What happens when strangers meet and love blooms? And the weight of a Nation consumes a soul only in desperation to survive?
1. HURTS

**HURTS**

"I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think, vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done."

-_John Brown_

_December 2__nd__, 1859  
CharlesTown Virginia_

The air was thick with tension. No, it reeked of it. A tall, golden haired man paced outside of the county jail, thinking deeply about what was about to be witnessed. Journalists and people willing to get a look at the 'traitor' or 'hero' (depending on one's views) had come in droves. About two thousand soldiers were there standing guard in case someone tried anything 'funny'. Yet, there was nothing funny about the death of a man. He was a man who was a humanist, a new man, for the new age, for the New World; for Alfred F. Jones.

"I just, I cannot believe this verdict." A middle-aged man rubbed his eyes. Hiram Griswald looked to the blonde sadly. "I just cannot believe this."  
"I can understand, but, John knew what he was doing." Alfred forced a small smile to reassure the haggard lawyer. He sighed to himself at this predicament. His breath was left hanging in the winter air.

On the other side of the small field, which was really the gallows, another blond head was bobbing as she walked. Gentlemen, soldiers, even women turned their heads to watch her grace and air as she passed. The young woman only stopped when she was before the lawyer, Andrew Hunter, a small smile on her plush lips.

"It shan't be long now." That thick South Carolinian accent rolled off of her tongue and stained the air with sweet; sickeningly sweet for the day. But the two shared a look, knowing the shifting tides, knowing and feeling the ground beneath their feet was starting to turn, to twist.

"Miss Amelia, are you sure you ought to be here?" Hunter spoke quietly.

"I 'hafta be here, else what would my dear brother think?" A thin brow arched at the mention of her charismatic but younger, brother. Alfred F. Jones. The golden boy who had led his people to their freedom but a hundred years ago and now they were at a pinnacle point. She could feel it. She was smart, cunning, she had to be. It was who she was. To survive, she had to be anything less than fierce.

"Of course." Hunter nodded and a silence went through the crowd far away from viewing easily what was to come. Blue eyes slid to the county jail's doors opening and out walked the traitor. Blonde curls bounced as she raised her chin higher. There would be no tolerance for such things in her states.

Alfred was stone silent. There was nothing worse than watching a good man walk to his death. He too could sense the changing tides. It made him uneasy.  
John Brown walked in silence to the gallows, looking straight ahead, never looking down. Amelia looked the man in the eyes as he past and also to the man behind him in the crowd. She nodded to him; Thomas Jackson, a good soldier and a good friend.

Brown was led up the steps to the gallows, silent still, and no fear on his face. This is where the siblings caught each other's eyes. Sapphire burned sapphire. Neither would back down from the other. Alfred felt his jaw tense under her always critical gaze. She hid her nerves well and broke the stare back to the traitor who was now having a rope placed around his neck.

It happened quickly. At eleven fifteen am, John Brown was hung for his crimes. People gasped, women looked away, men made noises, but two sets of blues didn't even flinch. It took a hand on Alfred's shoulder to bring him back to present.

"Yes, we should be going. Buchanan is expecting me back tomorrow." He was all too happy to leave. The ground he stood on burned his feet. The very ground on which America, he, was founded. Where green eyes had been warm and a comfort, the start of everything Alfred knew. It was also the place where it had all come to just as an abrupt end. Where Alfred and his people won everything they had now.

Amelia watched her brother leave with a level stare. That was when she was taken aback. A young man was left standing where Alfred had been. Her head tilted as her eyes searched, curious. He was tall, yet shorter than Alfred by hair, she could tell. Copper skin. Half Native perhaps? Reddish-brown hair that fell into crimson eyes, which is what made her own narrow in confusion. She had never seen his color eyes before – blood crimson.

This stranger offered a seductive half smile, did he mean to be? Her heart fluttered and she swallowed hard to keep her composure. He could have been the devil himself with the way his eyes seemed to draw her in.

All too soon; he tipped his head to her and turned on his heel, a different gait than the rest of the men she knew of the time. He walked away. She too retired to her carriage waiting for her. Once settled in the protection of walls and curtains, all she could see was those devil eyes. Her hand went to her locket to play with. It would have been best they never meet again…but history has a way in forcing the hands of fate.

* * *

**Hey guys! I have come off of some serious writers block. WARNING: This is loosely based off of history (though I will try to corroborate as best as I can). This IS an odd ship...Just look at it as the 2ps being siblings in sets of four in the same universe for the sake of this fic. Please forgive me as I know a lot of people enjoy them in the alternate universes but Al x Amelia is one of my favorite ships! I will also be taking my own personal liberty on Al's "real" name - it's just my head cannon name for him - don't be offended. The title is****HURTS,****, and yes it is for the band. The titles of the chapters with major plot points will be the titles of the songs from the album: Exile. This is a Civil War fic and is again (surprise) my own head cannon for how I see it going down with Al being present in the same universe as Alfred. You may or may not agree, but just enjoy it for what it is anyway in the real sense: fiction Nations. I do intend to re-look at Melody Within, I just had to get this penned down.  
****  
****I may also be bringing someone else in on the project for some parts, but the POV will shift. I have an Al muse so it will be mostly his side and inner struggles. Hence, why I may bring someone on for Amelia because she's not boring by any means! So if the writing changes tone - you have been warned as too why! :3 (Rp partner where this all came to life!) Hope you enjoy!**

**Historical Notes:****  
The death of John Brown, Abolitionist in 1859 for his "crimes" in raiding Harper's Ferry.  
Andrew Hunter was the Prosecuting Lawyer.  
Hiram Griswald was Brown's Lawyer (he actually had several but this one was the most prominent at the end).  
John Buchanan was the President at the time before Lincoln.  
Thomas Jackson is the future "Stonewall" Jackson - Confederate General. **


	2. The Turning of the Wheel

**The Turning of the Wheel  
****1860**

The crowd overwhelmed the packed streets outside of Cooper Union. Not that it was never not crowded…this was New York City. A tall, copper toned man hid himself under the long coat and pageboy cap. It was tilted to the side some, the reddish-brown hair spilling from under the cap casting wonder over the young man's appearance. He tried to keep his eyes turned down, focusing on walking to where he was supposed to be. He made it in time. Stepping up on the side of a carriage, he scaled a rusty ladder and onto a shop roof. Crouching down, crimson eyes turned his attention to the man speaking.

People gave him looks, people moved their children away from him. Barmen called him an Indian, some lesser than kind folk – called him otherwise. Half-breed was what was mumbled through the shops. He tended to keep his few friends close, and his enemies far away. Besides, he had more important things to do.

He turned his attention back to the man giving the speech. He was a Republican – honestly, whatever that meant to the stranger. Abraham Lincoln. Kentuckian. An eyebrow arched. A smooth talker strikes again so it seems. He sighed. Alfred was so high on this one. Something didn't feel right beneath his feet. Something was about to shift and Al Jones wasn't sure what it would be.

Jumping off the roof before the crowd dispersed, he could get back to his own place. His hide away from the world. It was easier being on his own. It had to be that way ever since - he stopped walking and felt a rain drop - he left. There was no mercy in the life he lived. He had followed every footstep his younger brother, their emblem, Alfred, had led. Even if that meant separation from his own choices in the end, his true colors won.

Rain gently fell from the foggy sky as he walked down an ally. He skipped along the puddles and didn't seem to mind his jacket falling open against the February chill. Al was an easier going man compared to his brother. Alfred was skeptical of everything, everyone. It often caused Al to be cast as the younger, even though, no one really knew who Al was.

He opened the door to his 'home' with a flourish to the bustling backstage. Women, men, animals and children skittered about. His first stop was to the stable where his dun stallion, Cisco, was waiting. He had been Al's personal choice from the time he had been a colt. He had dumped every man in Virginia, but Al. The two hellcats got along just fine, and he had taken the mustang in as his own. It had been quite the uproar…a Yankee showing up seasoned Calvary men. But Al wasn't a normal man.

"Lucy, I'm home!" He called patting Cisco between the eyes and offering a sugar cube. The small, russet colored child came running from the hayloft.

"Mister Al!" She ran and jumped for him. With a smile, he caught her in a hug. Lucy had arrived in New York the same time Cisco had. Passing by on his new colt, the rough rider had stumbled upon an auction. In his shame he had looked away, but not before he had heard the demanding calls of a six year old girl. Her skin was lighter than the others, and as the auctioneer had slapped her and called her 'half-breed', and other things. Al had dismounted, shouldered his way through the crowd, settled the payment, and without words carried the girl back to Cisco wrapped in his jacket.

That is how Lucy had come here. Her mother had been a slave on a large plantation and her father, the plantation owner's eldest son. Lucy wasn't a slave too Al or the people of the theater. She was an artist, a brilliant dancer and at age nine would come into her own soon enough as an actress.

"How did your practice go with Madam Dubois?" He slid his cap off, those locks framing his face, minus one stubborn cowlick.

"Very well, she said I need to point better, but everything else she said was fine." Her smile was one of innocents. That thick accent was leaving her and being replaced by all the education Al could find. She was a child. A child as a child, not of color, just a child. He had searched desperately for her mother, but couldn't find her in the last few months. It made him worried she had run away and further prodding would attract attention.

"Good, good. You'll be the lead soon enough, right?" He stood hearing the familiar clicking of heels behind him. A sharp rap to his shoulder made the youth chuckle. "Madam Dubois, how lovely too see you."

"You 'ave a message sir." The French accent of the ballet Mistress couldn't be denied. When Al paid more attention to Lucy talking about trivial things, she rapped him again. "Now."

"Lucy, I will see you later, alright?" Al glared at the overbearing French woman. Had his adoptive mother chosen her own clone to oversee him?  
"Alright!" The child was only too happy to run after the other dancers.

"Come, follow me." Madam Dubois walked swiftly to her chamber. As the theater dance instructor, and Madam who basically ran the theater while the owners were away, she had her own lodgings within the walls of the playhouse.

"What is it this time, Claret?" Al leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"…Well, _Alaric_," she used his first name. He winced at hearing it. Very few people knew his real birth name. Seeming to get her desired effect across, she handed him a letter.

"Someone very high and powerful in this world would like to invite you to a Gala." Her thin eyebrows arched.

"Oh yea? How high and powerful? My beloved baby brother?" He teased. The woman would have been a true beauty in her prime. She was beautiful now, but with a refined air. The French had a way of doing that when they aged. They went from sexy to classy. What she said next made a cold chill go from his head too toes.

"A Sir Arthur Kirkland, at personal hand of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, desires an audience with you, Alaric Jones." Her words were grave. _She had been hand chosen by Mama. Of course she knew of this name_, he thought.

"You seem shaken? Memories?" The woman sat down, crossing her legs, waiting. Al scoffed.  
"You could say that," he muttered. And much more. The last time he had seen the devil with emerald eyes…the man who had been kind to him at the start; had so coldly…he didn't want to think of it.

"You do not 'ave to attend. Perhaps Alfred should be informed?" She lit a cigarette, as if musing to herself and not him.

"NO." The force and tone made them both jump. She slammed her cigarette to the small ash tray, glaring.

"Non, what?" She stood and took his chin roughly. "Avez-vous peur? Pourquoi ne pas dire Alfred? Il est votre frère?" She chuckled, "Ou, est-il autre chose que vous ne voulez pas lui pour le savoir."

"Je n'aurais jamais imaginer aller derrière le dos d'Alfred." Anger flashed in his scarlet eyes and then quieted. "Some wounds are best left for time to heal." That and Alfred was too excited about moving Westward.

"Ah, oui, I see. It is in a place that may not welcome you." Worry crossed her face.

"Oh? And where could that possibly be? I'm not very welcomed in a lot of places." He took off his jacket and stole a cigarette from her vanity.

"The South. Charleston, to be exact."

He nodded, pausing to light and inhale the soothing burn of tobacco. Irony at its best.  
"No wonder he wants to meet there." He looked beyond Claret's shoulder as if seeing another realm. "It would see fit, his former crown jewel."

"What do you mean?" Now the woman was genuinely curious.

"Alfred said something about how that state of them all was his pride, Arthur's that is. Even over Virginia, where he met my brother." Crimson eyes narrowed. _Traitor_. He accused the Empire in his head. _Traitor to my own blood_.

"Well, that is that. If you are going, you must make haste tomorrow. I shall gather your things, appropriate things. You will wear your Lieutenant uniform when there. Pass as a human; do not endanger yourself, Alaric. There are rumors, and-" She had stepped up to the boy, a boy to her, and became like a mother.

"And because of what I look like, I know Claret, I will be careful. I swear." Al tried to give the woman an encouraging smile.

"Now go, clean yourself up." Brushing his shoulders, she turned her attention back to being in charge.

"Yes Ma'am." He knew she worried.

His room wasn't far down from hers. It was up a small flight of stairs, a loft of sorts. Chucking his jacket and cap to the wooden chair, he sat down on his bed and ran fingers through his hair. He didn't want to see the man who he and his brother once saw as a champion – to what a monster an empire can be. And yet, he was the only one who would have word on Al's 'other' matter.

There was no use in brooding over it. He was leaving in the morning and that was that. It would take a few days, but nothing that he wasn't used too. Lighting a small lamp, he dug through a wooden chest for his rifle, tucked away in protective leather and satin. Pulling out the sword he'd have to carry once at this Gala, he sneered. A sword wasn't an American's weapon, it was English. Still, he'd have to polish it, and his brass, and his boots.  
"Damn," he sighed. So much to do and all he wanted to do was sleep. Like his brother, he'd get a job done, and done right. He'd start with the brass.

Lucy brought him dinner, and helped him clean buttons while he worked on the rifle. He enjoyed her company. She was more or less a tony adult than anything. When an older dancer came to get the girl for bed, Al was left alone again.

"I have everything…but…where is…" he turned back to his chest and looked for the pouch containing his flint. He'd need it for starting fires. Rummaging through the old chest again he found a smaller, tin box. No. Don't open it. His resistance was wearing thin in the late hours of night.

Taking all of what he had left of that unspoken other, he opened the box gingerly.

Letters.

Maps.

A small wood carving of a wolf.

A piece of red coat.

Al sat back, staring at the remains of the ghost that haunted him. He wanted to test that name on his lips once more, taste it.

"Mathieu…"

Silence. Just as always.

Al shut the box and put it back in its proper place. He'd finish his boots in the morning. Lying back in bed, Al wondered just exactly what Arthur, England wanted with him. He wasn't Alfred. He didn't house America. Giving him three days to get there? What did Arthur think he was, the new proposed Pony Express?

He tucked his nose under the covers. What could possibly be interesting in South Carolina? All he knew of the South was the general hate thrown his way for his looks, and sometimes brash attitude. Turning with a 'humph', he wondered what England ever praised and worshiped about the South.

* * *

**Avez-vous peur? Pourquoi ne pas dire Alfred? Il est votre frère? -****Are you afraid? Why not say Alfred? He is your brother?**

**Ou, est-il autre chose que vous ne voulez pas lui pour le savoir. - ****Or, is there anything else you do not want him to know.**

**Je n'aurais jamais imaginer aller derrière le dos d'Alfred - ****I could never imagine going behind the back of Alfred.**

**Notes:**

**Feb 27th****-****Abraham Lincoln makes a speech at Cooper Union in the city of New York that is largely responsible for his election to the Presidency.**

**Mar 12th****-****Congress accepts Pre-emption Bill: free land in West for colonists**

**Apr 3rd****-****Pony Express began between St Joseph Mo & Sacramento Calif**

**Hope you guys like it! **


	3. Illuminated

Alaric woke the next morning before the sun. He begrudgingly finished those damned boots and set them aside. Claret brought him breakfast and fussed with the uniform, trying to keep both of them from falling into silence. He always packed light, hating to weigh Cisco down any more than he had too. A bedroll, a saddle bag of the necessities and ammunition. A canteen, his rifle would sling behind his shoulders. Another saddle bag with the uniform, neatly tucked the way Claret deemed fit. He'd wear the boots and brought more polish. He could make due with a set of clothes to travel. Once he'd get to Charleston he'd just buy what he needed for his stay at the inn of his choosing.

"Wear this," Claret handed him his blue and black cap that should have gone in with the uniform bag.

"Claret, why?" He knew why. The way he looked. It would be hard to mistake Al for a Native, or perhaps half someone else.

"Just do it. Now, your horse is ready and waiting. Just, promise you'll be safe?" The Mistress stood tall, proud, but there was worry behind sharp blues.

"Yes, I will, I promise." He gave her a light hug before turning, gathering his things.

Cisco was nuzzling up too Lucy for oats when Al came to the stable. The girl's face was grave.

"You're going down there?"

Al sighed as he strapped the bed role behind the saddle. "Yes I am."

"You have to be careful."

"You know I will, Lucy." He worked on the saddle bags, knowing all too well her fears were valid.

"Just be safe and come back." The girl wrapped him in a hug and Al leaned down to squeeze her.

"Of course I will. I have to see my favorite actress on stage." Flashing a wide grin, he led Cisco out into the morning mist. Swiftly mounting, he looked down, taking up reins. "I'll see you soon."

And with that he directed Cisco towards the trail, leaving Claret and Lucy watching, waiting, for his return.

* * *

Al and Cisco rode well into the night, stopping only twice for water and quickly eating. He didn't want to be late. That would induce ridicule from that bastard. The next day was as long as the first, getting up early and stopping to rest late. He leaned forward to pat Cisco's thick neck, thanking him for being so rugged. As a mustang, he was born for journeys like these. On the third day, as the sun set, Alaric saw the outskirts of Charleston. The road become sharper and lights could be seen from the town. He saw men in grey uniforms in swarms. Both he and his horse seemed to question each other onto why this was.

Halting Cisco outside of an inn, he swung down with a groan. It had been a while since he had rode a distance like that. Loosening the girth to let the stallion breathe, he walked him to the stables. A chocolate colored boy met him. Al smiled.

"My horse here needs a good cool down and a brushing. Think you can handle that?"

"I sure can sir." The teenager smiled reluctantly back.

"Good, his name is Cisco and he's funny about his back feet being picked. Just talk real nice to him and he'll take care of you." Al winked and slipped the boy five dollars. "Keep this between us."

Dark eyes grew wide as the youth took the bills. "Yes sir!" He took the reins from Alaric so the man could unstrap what he needed. Slinging the packs over his shoulders, he watched as Cisco led the boy towards the stall he wanted. With a grin he rolled his eyes, stubborn mule sometimes that mustang was.

The smile soon faded when he walked into the front of the inn. A soldier stood as Al entered and the front desk man glared at the grey-clad man as if he wished he would go away.

"I need a room for a few nights, sir." Al didn't hide his slightly off accent. From living in a place such as the North, it would be obvious, but from the city, down here that could be a put off.

The grey haired man smiled warmly from behind small spectacles. "Oh I think we can do that."

Al felt the eyes burning a hole through his back and he turned slightly, nodding. "You okay there brother?"

The soldier sneered. "Yer a damn Yankee aren't ya?" It was as if the soldier needed fuel to his already stirred fire.

"Yes, sir I am." Al turned back to the front desk man who was glaring at the soldier.

"Ya should jus go back to where ya came from, boy. What are you anyhow?" Alaric heard him step closer.

"I have business here, so no, sorry but I won't go back. I'm a man, thank you." This time, Al turned to face him, crimson eyes glaring into hazel. He watched the solider wince as if he had seen a demon. He knew his eyes were a rare and probably an extinct color.

"Was yer momma a redskin or yer daddy, half-breed?" The solider chuckled. The front deskman froze.

Al didn't hesitate. He swiftly knocked the solider back with a swift blow, and pinning him to the wall. His grip around the younger was iron, he knew that.

"That would be my mother, and you have gone above yourself private." Al snarled.

"…Let…let me go! I'll report ya!"

"To whom!? Perhaps you should have thought about that before you insulted a Lieutenant of the United State Army!" Al shoved his head into the wall so that his cap fell off and he watched the horror of knowing a half Native American was so high in the Army, and that he had just sealed his fate for a court martial.

"Sir, I'm, I…"

"You are what? Sorry!?" Al let go and turned back to his business. "Get out of my sight."

The private did as he was told and left, leaving the older man to sigh.

"Forgive me for that," he grumbled, "They are posted all over now."

"It's not your fault he's an ignorant ass," Al passed the money over as the man handed him the room keys.

He didn't stop until the door to his room was shut and locked. He let his packs fall to the floor with a thud and flopped down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. Wonderful way to be welcomed back to the South. Now he remembered why he avoided it.

Grabbing a bar of soap from his pack and a towel from the small closet, he locked his door again and went to the front desk. The kind man, named Jim, pointed Al in the direction of a stream behind the inn. Al didn't want a dip bath, he needed to dunk himself. And that is exactly what he did.

Once he stripped himself of his clothing in waded in, immediately submersing himself under the cool water. Coming up, he slicked shaggy hair back and grabbed the bar of soap. It didn't take him long, but the time spent in the water was needed. Grabbing his clothes he trudged back to the inn, passing Jim who gave an amused look, and locked himself back in his room.

The mirror caught his attention with his reflection. Shaking his hair out, he walked over to it, studying. His skin was copper, a toned, lean physique. His hand went to his chest, where he rested it over black ink. He hated it. In the War of 1812, American med were captured at sea by British ships and used for labor. Eventually all seamen had to be branded with a tattoo so that if an American ship caught up with a British vessel, they could find their own. Al was pinned down and given an eagle across his chest, even though he never set foot on a ship. Alfred was convinced it was the best thing for his older brother, but all it did was blow his cover while under capture in Canada. England, himself discovered Alaric, and the results had not been desired. Now, whenever he looked at that eagle, it meant something other than freedom to Alaric; loss.

Forcing himself to look away, he combed out his hair, leaving the unruly cowlick do as it wished. He flopped down on the bed, happy to have one and not the ground, and stared up at the ceiling. The invitation and letter were laid on the nightstand. Eyes grew heavy as he pondered over what tomorrow could possibly bring.

He swore he'd hire a personal boot polisher. Alaric had woken early, and gotten to polish the last of what needed to be polished. He had sent for the stable boy and passed him two more dollars to oil his tack and make sure Cisco looked turned out. Now he was focusing on himself, straightening his jacket, belts, and ran a hand over a clean-shaven face. His pistol was settled at his hip, as was his sword. His rifle would rest with Jim. He saw no use for bringing it to a Gala. Resting the cap on his head, blue with two rifles crossed slightly off-set on his head, and rank adjusted, he nodded.

The boy had Cisco looking like a grand show pony. His honey coat shone in the sun and even his muzzle and feathered feet were trimmed. Hoof oil darkened black hooves to a gleam and the tack sparkled. The stallion gave Al a comical look of 'help me' but Al merely patted his shoulder.

"Well done." Another dollar was slipped. "I shall return." He tipped his hat to the teenager, who was gaping at the man from yesterday that was now a uniform clad Lieutenant. Mounting swiftly, he spurred Cisco gently as he could forward.

Eyes narrowed as he rode towards the plantation house where he was too meet the Empire, and former mentor. His mind was a cloud of thoughts and questions until he was at the gates of the location. He couldn't hide the awe. The cobble stone path leading to the house was shaded by tall trees. Fields full of cotton and tobacco could be seen as far as the horizon, and then there was the house.

He felt Cisco hesitate as if shocked by all of this as well.

"They sure have to flaunt what they got don't they boy?" Al reassured the stud with a pat and they walked to the front of the huge mansion. A fountain of marble dazzled in the front, and Al could see the hint of gardens, just as vast as the fields behind the house.

His amazement was short lived as two soldiers met him. These two saluted, reluctantly at the sight of a higher ranked officer. He could feel their scorn.

"At ease gentlemen." He saluted back, dismounting.

"Invitation, Lieutenant?" The taller of the two demanded. Al searched his cold face and brandished the paper.

"Very well. Boy!" A stable boy came running from his post. "Take the Lieutenants horse."

Al, not wanting to cause waves nodded with a smile to the darker child and handed his reins over. He watched Cisco walk away, tail swaying lazily as his head was lowered to the child's shoulder. It was as if he understood.

"What business do you have here?" Now it was time for the third degree? Crimson eyes narrowed.

"I was invited, but no one has spoken to me of the details. For that I must see whom I came to meet."

"And who is that?" The shorter smirked as if Al were lying.

Alaric opened his mouth to retort, but a voice that drew the American's muscles tight and a chill through his entirety spoke.

"I invited him. He is here to see me." The British Empire walked gracefully down the steps, causing both men to come to heel.

Al was slow to meet the snake's eyes.

"Alaric, how nice to see you accepted my invitation." Arthur gave his signature half smirk, but this was not Arthur. All Al could see was the bastard who held the key to the truth. Crimson met emerald.

"Sir Kirkland," Al played the role of human better than any Nation he had met.

He could see the tyrant of Britannia in the shadows of Arthur's mind. He made a mental note to be on his guard.

Arthur wore that bleeding red jacket, with coattails swaying behind him. White pants fit his lean form and tall, black boots on his feet. The gold piping and sword that hung by his own side was dusted with gems. The only part of him that looked like the Arthur Al knew, was the still wild, buttery blond hair. A creamy complexion, strong features, yet soft at the same time and hands that could sooth or bruise clasp behind his back. The English Nation was to be desired in his own right. Alaric had always acknowledged this. But not today, today he would find out about the man who was lost to the wilderness.

"Come along, thank you, gentlemen." Arthur motioned for Al to follow him as he nodded to the soldiers. The younger man did, ignoring the idiots as he passed.

The two men were silent as they walked onto the large veranda and a servant opened the door for them. Al was immediately swept up in a bright ballroom, elegant music resonating through the patrons. Men in suits or uniforms, and women in gowns that both flattered and teased. The colors were bright and the atmosphere was one of happiness, contentment. The rich and mighty all gathered in one place. Al scoffed.

"Again, I must thank you for accepting my invitation. I know, due to our, circumstances, there was a great possibility you would not attend." Arthur took two glasses of champagne from a tray and handed on to Al.

"What do you want, Arthur?" Alaric's eyes narrowed, ever skeptical of the Brit's motives.

Arthur's face became crest fallen. "I merely want to talk." With a sigh, he settled both glasses on the table next to them and turned back, solemn to the American. "In all honesty, I have been thinking about what has come to pass between us, and, Alfred." The genuine hurt Al heard when Alfred was mentioned peaked an interest.

"Oh has it now?"

"Yes, looking back, I realize the mistakes I have made. I cannot ask forgiveness for them, that would be too easy, but to engage in talks of diplomacy. To try and heal what I have done to you and your brother. That would please me and my Queen. Mostly me." Arthur offered a soft smile. "I believe it is time to move onto the future."

Al was silent, picking up his glass and drinking. Oh that was good. Eyes shifted back to Arthur.

"And you came to this epiphany when?"

"A long while ago. Alaric, I believe it would be better for me to speak with you on this first. Alfred, I am afraid he'll need more time."

"Yes, he will. And it's completely understandable why." Al took another swig. Arthur just nodded in agreement before seeing a gentleman waving to the British Nation from across the room.

"Ah, excuse me, I must speak to Mr. Greenly for a moment."

Al growled, "We do this talk now or not at all."

"Alaric please, I do wish to speak with you." Green eyes begged. Really?

"Then talk now." Crimson didn't give.

"I shall, just a moment."

"What are you doing back here anyway?" Al took a step forward on edge.

"Stop being difficult. Meet me in two hours in the great room in the west wing. Please, Alaric."

"No Arthur, I won't play your games," Alaric turned to leave when he felt the strength of the Empire on his shoulder. His hand reached for his sword, but turning, he froze, keeping it sheathed.

"I would like to introduce you to Miss. Amelia. She is the estate holder," Arthur had presented before Alaric a tall, blond beauty. "I believe she can entertain you until I get back?" Al's face of stunned at the woman assured Arthur he had won.

"Of, of course," Al quickly found himself again. "It is a pleasure, Miss." He bowed slightly, looking back up into sky blue eyes, an amused and confident smile playing on plush lips.

"Tha pleasure is all mine, Lieutenant," she dipped a bit, as if she knew how to play with men. Alaric didn't complain as eyes accidentally slipped to the tops of swelling breasts from her corset. He swallowed quickly and fixed his eyes upwards as she looked back up. In his quick evaluation he could tell she was intelligent, she held herself without the silliness of the other women in the room who flirted coyly. Her eyes were sharp, seductive, and he knew, maybe, she didn't mean it. She was confident, she didn't need a man. He could tell. Under layers of petticoats he imagined briefly a brick house body, tightly toned but curved just the way he liked. Her honey skin would look so perfect in candlelight.

"Lieutenant, are ya alright?" She snapped her fan open, eyes critical on his own, odd color.

"Yes, yes ma'am." Alaric recovered gracefully, offering his arm. "Forgive me, I couldn't help myself, you are quite different than any woman I've ever met." How true that was.

"Oh am I?" She looked him up and down before accepting. "Yer from the North?"

"Yes, does the accent give it away?" He teased as he allowed her to lead them to the back of the ballroom and out on the patio overlooking the gardens.

"Just a bit." She'd entertain him, like Arthur had asked.

"Wow, these gardens are beautiful, are they all yours?" His strange eyes widened in honest appreciation. That made her ease just a bit, not a lot, but a bit. She was a lady, and a woman with a mission. If that required her to spend time with a Yankee Lieutenant, she would.

"Yes, they are."

"You must be quite the woman to run this entire place yourself." He flashed a soft smile. Her cheeks burned slightly. Dammit all. When she had first seen him enter, her displeasure with having to entertain the copper-toned man and what people would say bothered her. He had demanded attention by just standing on his own, she could tell, but up close. She studied his face as he took the landscape in, he was handsome, sinfully so.

* * *

"Are ya completely outta yo head!?" A few hours before, Amelia had been told by Arthur his grand plan. She wanted none of this. She glared at the English Nation she had taken for an adoptive father over the years. He was rolling his eyes behind her as he tightened her corset for her.

"Amelia, trust me. In order to even get a voice to your brother, you will need this man's support." Arthur yanked the string taut, earning a death glare.

"And ya expect me tah jus be a ninny? Flirt and be like every bimbo that comes to these events?" She gasped, collecting herself.

"No, quite the contrary," Arthur tied the last bit of laces and rested his hands on honey toned shoulders. "This man enjoys a challenge, he will be more interested if you show no interest, as well as your natural confidence. He'll be attracted to that." The Brit took a diamond necklace from the vanity and clasped it around her elegant neck.

"Jus how much powa does he have? A mere human can't influence my brotha that much." She turned her head from side to side, studying her appearance.

"Oh but he does." Arthur's eyes were dark.

"So, ya want me to act like myself? I may very well scare the Yankee away. Shame if I did."

"You won't, once he sees you he'll want to know about you. But, you must stick to the story of your 'human' existence."

"I'm nawt stupid Arthur." Critical blues judged the blond man.

"I know, which is why this will work. Earn his favor, and he could be a friend in pleading your case."

The woman wasn't happy about this as she pouted. She was proud. Stooping to the aid of a human officer was not her style. She'd rather just flat out tell Alfred her concerns and if there was no way around it – the ultimate would happen.

Amelia knew the unrest of her states. They were no longer happy with the way the country as a whole was running. And that republican, Lincoln, was causing rumors and fear throughout the South. None of the elite wanted to lose what they had worked so hard to create. Alfred didn't seem to care. All he wanted was West expansion.

She narrowed sky blues. "Fine, I'll do it. But nawt because I want too. Because I hafta, for my states." She nodded too her reflection and Arthur in the mirror.

At first she was at ease, chatting and floating easily as the charming hostess. Important men and officers of her own states tried for her affections, but she knew better. A human's life was fleeting to her own. She never saw herself settling down, there was no one she desired, and perhaps, it was best to stay that way.

She had been speaking to Thomas Jackson and his wife, Anna, when the woman's eyes focused on the other side of the ballroom.

"Wut is it Anna?" Amelia had chuckled and turn, her own gaze transfixed. Her heart pounded, but not in a good way. What was Arthur thinking? His copper skin drew her attention first, as well as the disapproving glances other members were casting his way. The second was how did this man climb ranks under her brother to Lieutenant? She was skeptical, telling herself not to judge her brother on his sexuality.

"Who is that Amelia?" Jackson sipped champagne and nodded towards the stranger. "Does your brother keep ties to his, Native, roots so close as to call them officers in his Army?"

Her glare was sharp. "I have neva met that man, nor do I know his affiliation with my brotha." Oh, Arthur would hear about this later. And she had to 'entertain' this man? Did he even speak English?

"Excuse me," She primly set her glass down and set out with a radiant smile on her face towards the two men. She could do this. She would do this. If it meant getting what she wanted, what her people wanted.

As she came closer, she heard them arguing, the darker toned man threatening to leave. His voice was definitely from the North, but off all the same. Green eyes met her blue briefly as the man in the blue uniform turned. She didn't miss his hand ready to draw and she quickly stepped between him and Arthur, with a smile.

She watched the anger in his eyes dissipate, and the awe replace them. Her smile grew more, cocky, she had that effect on men. His own eyes gave her cause to marvel back. Scarlet, they were scarlet, and warm, and deep, so very deep.

"I would like to introduce you to Miss. Amelia. She is the estate holder," Arthur was breathing a sigh of relief at Alaric's obvious interest. "I believe she can entertain you until I get back?"

"Of, of course." The man quickly recovered. "It is a pleasure, Miss." He bowed slightly, looking back up into sky blue eyes. She had to stop a sharp inhale. Closer inspection of this, rouge and she had to admit, he was handsome.

"Tha pleasure is all mine, Lieutenant." Ever the lady, she dipped in greeting, knowing far well what she was doing. She could feel his gaze slip to the tops of her breasts which were supple and rounded by the corset. Her cheeks burned in slight irritation. "Lieutenant, are ya alright?" She snapped her fan open, placing it between him and her chest before he stole another glance. A thin eyebrow arched. He was a dog. A damned tramp wasn't he?

"Yes, yes ma'am." He once again recovered gracefully, offering his arm. "Forgive me, I couldn't help myself, you are quite different than any woman I've ever met."

"Oh am I?" She looked him up and down before accepting. "Yer from the North?" The eyes she felt on her made her unease. Curse Arthur for making her do this. She held herself with such a high class, surely people would talk.

"Yes, does the accent give it away?" He teased. The man seemed content to let her drag him right out the back of the ballroom and away from judging eyes.

"Just a bit." She slid her arm out gently and walked a few inches from him, unsure of how to continue.

"Wow, these gardens are beautiful, are they all yours?" His strange eyes widened in honest appreciation. That made her ease just a bit, not a lot, but a bit. She was a lady, and a woman with a mission. If that required her to spend time with a Yankee Lieutenant, she would.

"Yes, they are."

"You must be quite the woman to run this entire place yourself." He flashed a soft smile. That was when something jumped in her stomach. He confused her. Was he a Native, or just dark American, or both? But that smile, those eyes. They triggered a memory she had locked away.

"Miss. Amelia?" He sobered at her silence. Her reply made his eyebrow arch.

"Please remove your cap."

"Excuse me?"

"Don'tcha have any manners? You are in the presence of a Lady. Such a Yankee," she let her finger slide along the white railing as she walked away further.

"My apologies." He did as she asked and when she turned back, she stared in shock. It was him. Shaggy, mahogany hair fell into his eyes, except one stubborn piece that was very much like her brother's. Those crimson eyes, his devilish smile, it was the man from Brown's execution.

"Miss?" He played with his hat in his hands, unsure of why she was gaping.

"You were at John Brown's hangin' in December, weren't ya?" She remembered that grin he had flashed her. The stranger had been right behind her very own brother. Who was this man? Her guard was up.

His surprise was genuine. "Yes, yes I was, why do you ask?"

She sauntered back over to him, keeping a safe distance between them. "Ya saw me, and smiled, much less innocent than ya do naow."

She saw the wheels in his head working before his eyes widened. "I believe I did see you there yes."

Shit. She had seen him at the hanging, with Alfred. This was going to take some explaining. We're best friends? That was the only thing he could offer her in truth. He couldn't tell this woman that Alfred was his brother…that would give away his cover of human.

His admission seemed to satisfy her though.

"I neva thought I'd see you again." Her head tilted slightly.

"And, why's that?" Al was confused.

"'Cause folk down here really don't take too kindly to, devils." Her chin raised higher.

Al felt anger throughout his body. It was his eyes. Or she meant what everyone else did. Crimson eyes flashed in anger and he saw her blues flicker in slight fear.

"What does that mean, Ma'am?" He bristled, stepping closer to her.

She wasn't sure of what he would do, as a ruffian. She didn't back down. She wasn't brought up that way.

"It means wut I said."

"Oh? Please, I'm a little dumb, since I'm from the North, you may have to explain yourself sweetheart."

He got too comfortable. "Don'tcha dare talk ta me like that!"

"I will talk to you however I see fit, if you plan on doing the same."

She raised her hand to strike him, but he was faster and caught her wrist. The grip he held on her was gentle, controlled.

"I wouldn't go hitting men you just met, Amelia."

Her heart was pounding. How did they get so close? He studied her face intently, wondering the same thing. She was beautiful, a beautiful little firecracker that he'd still be interested in if she could stop insulting him.

He smelled like leather, and spice, and something sweet. His face was strong, and well-shaped, his jaw defined. His palms were rough, work probably, but his grip was soft.

"And I wouldn't go callin' women you jus meet, sweetheart."

He studied her face, as she did the same.

"Am I, interrupting something?" The sound of Arthur clearing his throat cut through the tension like a knife.

Amelia tensed and pulled away from the stranger and he let go, smiling brightly.

"Nawt at all."  
Arthur's brow raised, looking to Alaric who seemed to be a mixture between confusion and irritation. "No?"

"Miss. Amelia was just explaining herself, that's all." Al's face was tight. "Are you ready to talk now?"

"Yes, I am." Arthur continued to look between them, confused.

"Good. Then let's go." Alaric began walking, unaware of where too. Over his shoulder he said nonchalantly, "Oh, and thank you for the Southern hospitality, Miss. Amelia."

She balled her fists, but called after him just as fake, "Well bless yer heart."

Arthur cast her a warning look before following the American. He'd get lost and in trouble by himself.

Amelia watched them go. There was no way Arthur's plan would work. Not with that man anyway. Never with that man.

* * *

**Hate at first sight 3 **


End file.
